


Good Mourning

by RunningHaunted



Series: Kindred [3]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Dark Humor, Dorks in Love, Heavy Angst, It Gets Worse Before It Gets Better, I’M REALLY SORRY FOR THIS, M/M, Mutual Pining, Roach is only mentioned in this one, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, a lot of subtext, let’s play a game of spotting hints, my poor boy Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22094572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RunningHaunted/pseuds/RunningHaunted
Summary: An overdue conversation, foreboding thoughts and mild panic attacks.Jaskier really hates Geralt of Rivia.(Spoiler: he really doesn’t.)
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Kindred [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1584472
Comments: 206
Kudos: 2829





	Good Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> This Kindred verse is getting out of hand.... if i keep going this way it might evolve into something huge... i just hope I don’t lose motivation halfway through TwT
> 
> Once again my thanks go out to the very awesome cookie @AvengetheDirection whose comments have pushed me to write more about our two favorite idiots and helped a lot in keeping me inspired.
> 
> Although this part turned out to be much darker than originally planned... a lot of subtext that ties in with what I’ve got roughly mapped out in regards to background.
> 
> Title taken from Halsey’s song of the same name.

It‘s been three days and Jaskier has already become quite the pro at avoiding certain topics like the plague. 

Mainly by pretending to be too tired to keep it together. But whatever works, right? 

The townspeople have quite honestly been great help, too. After seeing the massacre in the stables they‘d had a brief moment of collective hysteria, granted, but even Jaskier had panicked upon seeing the butchered mess. And there’d been a dagger sticking out of his gut at the time. 

He likes to consider himself quite smart for hollering at everyone that would listen how heroic Geralt‘s intentions had been. Taking out Nilfgaard‘s soldiers in an epic quest to defend the town‘s- well, doesn’t matter. 

Though, in retrospect, jumping between a fucking Witcher and a dagger hadn’t been is brightest moment either. Geralt had already informed him about that shortly after that, yes, it would have been quite uncomfortable, but far less threatening for him than for a human. He’d also added something about Jaskier being a blithering idiot. 

Well, duh. 

But falling in love with a Witcher is still at the top of his worst life decisions. Not that Geralt would ever know that if Jaskier could help it. 

And speaking of the Witcher: Geralt had bloody finally agreed to let him stand up without immediately wrestling him back to bed. 

Now, don‘t get him wrong, Jaskier has absolutely no problem being wrestled to the sheets by Geralt. Quite the opposite. But he’d prefer it to be for a more intimate reason. 

A bard can dream. 

But this, this is unacceptable. 

„I am fiiine, Geralt!“

„You were stabbed.“

„You got fucking swallowed by a selkimore at some point! I didn‘t see you taking more than a few hours before charging the next monster!“

„Damn it Jaskier I can‘t watch out for you, too!“

„Luckily for you, you won‘t have to! I can do that just fine myself!“

„Yeah and see how that turned out!“

Jaskier rarely gets angry, but when he does, he explodes. Funnily enough, it‘s usually Geralt who manages to push his buttons just the right way. 

„Fuck you! Just try and leave without me! I dare you!“

„It‘s only a few-„

„Fuck you!“ Jaskier yells, heaving from the exertion of it. „You‘re just trying to get rid of me again!“ 

„No! But I damn well should be!“ Geralt snaps, anger warring with something akin to concern. Then, following those words, guilt. 

„Liar! You-„ Jaskier sways, bracing himself against the wall as the room starts turning. „You...“ 

Geralt catches him before he can embarrass himself any further by faceplanting onto the floor. 

He wants to stay mad. He desperately needs to. He cannot be abandoned again. He doesn’t think he’d survive that emptiness again. 

Geralt tries steering him back to the bed and Jaskier digs his heels in, refusing to keep going and fixing the Witcher with a glare. „No, I’m not going back to bed!“

There‘s a deep frown marring Geralt‘s face, all frustration with anger simmering beneath the surface. A low growl reverberates in the Witcher’s throat; a wolf ready to pounce. 

This is usually where Jaskier goes pliant and backs down; bares his throat.

But when backed into a corner and desperate enough, every being becomes unpredictable and volatile. 

„If you go, I go!“ Jaskier says coldly. 

„You’re being unreasonable.“

„If you want me to stay here you’ll have to kill me first.“

The Witcher recoils as if he’d been hit. Then, probably upon remembering that he is Geralt of fucking Rivia, he truly does snarl, baring a ridiculously sharp row of white teeth. 

Yes, he had filed his front teeth down a long time ago (though the horns were apparently only a jest) but not the molars. And yes, those fangs sure do look mildly terrifying in a way that sends his heart pitter-pattering up his throat like a frightened lark. 

Thankfully he‘s about ninety percent sure that Geralt doesn’t revert to ripping people‘s throats‘ out with his teeth... unless he doesn’t have any other choice. 

Geralt closes his eyes, the hands he has fisted at his sides tightening. The bard almost thinks that the Witcher looks... pained. 

„Jaskier, I‘m not going to-... I never-...“ the fight seems to leave the other man all at once. Geralt sags visibly, then runs a hand through the curtain of white locks. His mouth opens and closes several times. 

And Jaskier really wants to stay standing and hear those lousy excuses, he does, but he’s beginning to lose track of his thoughts again and there are dark blotches at the edge of his vision, reminding him rather rudely why ordinary humans shouldn’t just take a dagger to the gut. 

So he plops down rather unceremoniously onto the bed. Yeah, him “digging his heels in” did about as much to the Witcher as a soft ocean breeze. 

Geralt stays where he is, looking indecisive but ready to pounce in case Jaskier should start hacking up blood again. Ugh, it had taken a whole day for that nasty taste to leave his mouth.... 

And- and a he does understand that, theoretically, Geralt has to leave. Needs to take the job two towns over to pay for the medication the townspeople were kind enough to provide them with and the food. The innkeeper has said that they wouldn’t have to, they’d already gotten rid of Nilfgaard’s men, but Geralt had always utterly despised being indebted to anybody. 

But the mere thought of being left here gives Jaskier a mild panic attack. Which is, granted, very illogical. Geralt had never lied to him, and Jaskier believes him when he says that he’ll come back. 

The memories of those months traveling alone, however, are... too much. A box of explosives he’d buried somewhere dark and deep at the back of his mind. 

Geralt likes to think he is a monster. But Jaskier... he’d encountered monsters. Most of them human. Geralt isn’t one of them. 

“Please. I can come with you.”

The Witcher still stands there like a statue cut from iron, looking conflicted. And Jaskier... Jaskier is still in love with this being whose eyes contract to slits like those of a cat, whose teeth had been filed down in order to not scare others. With a Witcher of Kaer Morhen, Geralt of Rivia.... who is so obviously in love with Yennefer of Vengerberg. 

Old grieve washes over Jaskier like a tidal wave. He’d known it even back when he’d first set eyes on the Butcher of Blaviken, when they’d set out to defeat the “devil” who hadn’t been a devil at all. 

A decade had passed and Geralt had still looked the same. Jaskier, who’d still been very much green behind the ears the first time around, had become older. A proper adult. 

Geralt is older than Jaskier, yet he will live for much longer than the bard would ever dare hope for. Even in the unlikely case that Jaskier will die of old age and not something far more sinister. 

Something sinister that would- Jaskier throws the doors to that particular thought shut, wondering when the godforsaken box had managed to claw its way to the front of his mind. 

Geralt comes closer with slow, deliberate movements, as if the bard is only a second away from fleeing the inn and Geralt’s sight. If it hadn’t been so... endearing, Jaskier would take offense. 

The Witcher kneels in front of him, only the tiniest bit shorter like this, and clasps his shoulders in a surprisingly tender grip. 

“Will you stay here if I leave Roach with you?”

Jaskier chews on his lip, tastes blood, let’s go again and contemplates this. 

Geralt’s nostrils flare and his eyes flick down sharply to Jaskier’s mouth. 

If not for him, Geralt will surely return for Roach. Of that, he can be sure. Very sure. Yes. Geralt would never abandon his beloved horse. But...

“That would mean you’d need to travel to Tragam by foot.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I will ask the farmer to rent me one of his horses. If there aren’t any complications, I could be back as soon as 5 days from now around this time.”

The bard swallows the lump in his throat and searches Geralt’s eyes, so very beautiful; inhuman. 

“Do you promise?” 

Geralt lets himself tip forward until his face rests against his collarbone and pale, wayward strands of hair tickle his nose. 

The sudden change in positions leaves Jaskier reeling momentarily, and again Geralt buries his nose in the bard’s neck, breath huffing over the skin there. 

“I promise” he says softly, and... Jaskier believes him. He does. But the fear climbs up his throat again like a noose ready to choke. 

“Believe me, Jaskier, leaving brings me no joy.”

“...could have fooled me...” 

“It doesn’t!” And this, this is fierce, serious, no hint of irony or sarcasm. This is the voice Geralt uses to tell people to go the other way or find themselves on the wrong end of his sword. 

“Damn it, Jaskier...” more a sigh now, one calloused palm wanders to splay over the bandage with the stab wound beneath, and the bard’s breath hitches. 

It feels oddly intimate, the position they’re in. Practically entangled. Geralt is gentle, his hand almost quivering with caution and fear of applying pressure to the barely closed injury, and Jaskier’s head feels fuzzy with the knowledge. 

Something others view as so monstrous and violent (and Jaskier holds no illusions in that regard. Geralt can be all of the above and more with ease) capable of such softness.... nobody would believe the ballads he could write about it. Not about a Witcher. 

He wonders if all of them are like Geralt. But he’s also pretty sure that it’s just him. (Insert something poetic about how his eyes hold all the light and his hair reflects the moon’s mourning glow; Jaskier isn’t exactly objective to be honest.) 

Geralt pulls back a bit, pressing their foreheads together and the scent of pine, ale, and the same thing he still can’t find a word other than inhuman for has Jaskier close his eyes briefly, his head swimming with the primal awareness that, right now, he is safe. 

Safer than he’d ever been in his entire life. 

When his eyes open again, Geralt’s stare weighs heavy on the bard, and once more a foreign emotion pulls at the Witcher’s face, makes the lines vanish and the scars stand out more starkly. 

Jaskier wants to trace each of them. But that’s not allowed. 

Geralt’s throat bobs as he swallows, and his other hand slides to the back of the bard’s neck, squeezing lightly, and Jaskier’s heart flutters for a whole different reason than before. 

“Jaskier-...” Geralt begins, stops, curses in a low growl. “Please, please don’t do anything dumb while I’m away.”

“Not to worry, dear Witcher, I doubt I can walk much farther than the stables.” the bard replies wryly. His eyes narrow. “Which doesn’t mean I can’t drag myself elsewhere if you catch the sudden flight syndrome on your way to Tragam.” 

Geralt huffs a laugh, the ghost of a smile pulling at his lips (and Jaskier honestly needs to stop staring at those, like, right now). “Couldn’t even if I wanted to at this point.”

And Jaskier doesn’t melt... he doesn’t! 

But the moment’s passed just as soon and Geralt’s face becomes serious, the look in his eyes piercing. “Jaskier, I mean it. Don’t-...” Again, Geralt stops, his teeth grinding, and now he positively does sound pained when he presses out “Do not make me come back to a dead body.”

“Oh come on, I’m not that fragile. A little stabby stab stab isn’t gonna kill me four days after the healer declared me ‘spared from death’s merciful kiss’.” 

“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” Geralt snaps, but he doesn’t pull away yet, just grips his neck a little tighter like the bard would fade into thin air otherwise. 

Jaskier presses his jaws together, running his tongue nervously over the blunt, human edges of his teeth. He wonders whether Yennifer had cut herself open on those sharp, sharp teeth when she and Geralt had kissed. 

He knows he would have. 

The Witcher sighs, his spine curling as his shoulders sag minutely. “Damn it, Jaskier, this needs to stop.” He wets his lips. “You can’t keep gambling your life like this. One day that dagger will hit a little higher. And I- I won’t be able to save you.”

“I’m not gambling-“

The snarl that rips from Geralt’s throat is positively scary. “You are! You don’t seem to care whether-“ he stops, reevaluates, becomes frantic. Sometimes, Jaskier thinks, Geralt looks like something else is trapped beneath his skin, something that can‘t stop aching, can‘t sleep; something unable to stop howling. 

„Are you trying to die?“

Jaskier blinks, and his eyes must go comically wide when he blurts. „What the- NO! I like being alive. Thank you very much!“ 

And the relief in Geralt‘s face is so heartbreaking that the bard bites his tongue, hard, to keep from spilling more than would be wise. 

„I told you before.“ he says instead, quietly. 

The Witcher hums, breathes in deeply and pulls back a little. „You told me you‘re waiting for my patience to run out.“

„Yeah. Or a monster to off me.“

„Jaskier, I wouldn’t ever- I won‘t kill you just because I‘m annoyed.“ 

This... this needs to stop right now. Jaskier had already resigned himself to the fact that, yes, Geralt does care for him in some capacity, but this makes his heart hurt and his head spin and this fucking scent-

„You annoy me pretty much all the time.“ Geralt says, matter of fact but with a faint sense of humor. „But, Jaskier, I‘d rather slit my own throat than hurt you. And no monster will come within ten feet of you if I can help it.“

Jaskier... Jaskier has to close his eyes, lest the tears welling up there spill over, because he knows that if he starts, he won‘t be able to stop. 

It’s all so surreal. Him, sitting here, being soothed by that one Witcher who’d missed the public memo that he shouldn’t be caring about what Jaskier thinks in the first place. Much less about his recent streak of injuries. 

„Go.“ He says, eyes pressed together to the point where no light comes through. 

Geralt stills. 

„Please.“ Jaskier whispers. Then adds „If you’re not back by the promised time, I will paint Roach the ugliest color imaginable.“

Geralt‘s entire body rumbles with laughter and Jaskier thinks it‘s more beautiful than any song on the whole wide continent. And that revelation makes him... unimaginable tired; exhausted. 

He wishes this world were kinder. 

The Witcher, after taking a deep breath, stands, and by doing so takes all the warmth with him. „I will be back soon. Don‘t paint Roach.“

Jaskier grins tightly. „No promises in that regard. Better hurry up.“

There‘s a hand, hot and heavy, at his jaw, tilting his head back slightly as Geralt moves back in, rooting him to the spot with a stare so intense that Jaskier feels like all his inner workings are slowly being dissected, studied, and stuffed back inside all wrong. 

And when Geralt says “I know there’s more. I won’t press right now, but, Jaskier, this needs to stop.”, when those golden eyes close and he adds “Please...” It’s sounds too much like begging and praying in one that the bard can’t help but start shaking.

Geralt doesn’t know. He won’t ever know. 

At least, and as much as Jaskier despises it, he knows that the witch will be there. Bound to Geralt by that stupid wish of his. 

It’s almost in the blink of an eye that the Witcher is gone, leaving Jaskier shaking and crying on a bed that still smells of death. 

It seems to follow him like a shadow, these days. 

He wonders when Geralt won’t be enough to keep it at bay anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> No, this is NOT the final conversation about Jaskier’s strange behavior. Just something of a... warm up?
> 
> Why did this turn out so daaaark!? Gosh I’m not sure maybe I should rewrite it...
> 
> Oh gosh i have no idea where I’m going with this yet. 
> 
> Any and every prompts or ideas you might have are appreciated!!!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed it despite that heavy angst >w< Feedback is, as always, also highly appreciated :3


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